


We're More Ghosts Than People

by Jenny Bee (JennyBee443)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, I Don't Even Know, Just a tiny bit inspired by the Outlander series... if you squint, Let's butcher geography, Maybe it's all a dream, Medium-High Honor Arthur Morgan, Modern girl meets handsome cowboah, Or Is It?, Pretending Red Dead locations are historically real, Updating tags as I go, trying to keep everyone in character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennyBee443/pseuds/Jenny%20Bee
Summary: When Ginny Sinclair finds notes and sketches of some ancient rock carvings in an old journal written by her great-grandfather, she decides to spend her vacation searching for a couple of these carvings in some sort of Indiana Jones-type adventure. It starts out well enough, until she wakes up from an accident in the year 1899. She quickly realizes that her crazy great-grandfather may have been onto something with his scrawled ramblings about time-travel. With a little help from a kind stranger, she sets out to find him and, hopefully, find her way back home.Eventual Arthur/Ginny. Canon-typical violence, language, and situations. Follows some of the storyline, and Arthur manages to avoid TB.





	1. Chapter 1

The morning of May thirteenth, a Saturday, found Virginia Sinclair – known also as Ginny, because seriously, who names their daughter _Virginia_ anymore? – trekking up a steep, forested hill just north of an old fort in the state of New Hanover. She discovered about fifteen minutes into the hike that her backpack weighed more than it needed to, and perhaps she should have unpacked it the night before, rather than immediately going to sleep and leaving some clothes, her toiletries, her cellphone charger and an old, leather-bound journal in the bag. She'd barely taken the time to get changed, brush her teeth and throw her long dark hair into a ponytail before rushing out of her aunt's house with an obligatory “thank you” and “see you later!”

She took a swig from her water bottle and soldiered on, huffing and grumbling under her breath as the climb continued to grow steeper. She did have to admit, though, that the scenery really was something else. Especially once she made it to the top of the great hill and saw what had to be most of the state laid open in front of her. The Dakota River snaked between high cliff faces and rushed south, towards the small city of Valentine. Mountains reached for the clouds in the distance, the tallest of which were still coated in snow, even in the unseasonable warmth that had been covering the state and much of this part of the country since about mid-March.

The drive north from Valentine had been quiet first thing in the morning, once she got out of the city proper. Her aunt Ellen lived in a small apartment above what had – at one point in history – been a doctor's office in the city center. Now it was a humble four story, narrow brick apartment complex undergoing renovations to install some more “modern” amenities, likely in an effort to draw in the younger folks – or so her aunt says. Ginny had learned as she had gotten older that her aunt Ellen was one of  _those_ people: the townies who complain about change like it's their job, particularly when it comes to “historic landmarks” being repurposed or torn down to make room for a modern upgrade. As much as Ginny could understand the need to preserve history, she also rather enjoyed updated indoor plumbing, and really, would a private pool be  _that_ bad?

She'd visited with her aunt many times growing up, but never without her mother traveling with her. She had been hoping to share this little exploration with her mom, especially after learning that her mother had a shared interest in the strange rock carvings and other odd discoveries highlighted in the musty old journal they had found in Ginny's grandmother's belongings that had been left in storage since her passing. Many of the fading ramblings in the journal had made little sense, but learning that the journal had in fact belonged to Ginny's great-grandfather had made the sketches and wild theories seem so much more adventurous. So Ginny and her mom had tried mapping out a couple of the locations from what had been written in the journal, and planned to visit the two closest to where her mom's sister, Ellen, was living in Valentine. They were to fly from Portland, Maine down to the small airport near Valentine, rent a car, and then spend the next few days with her aunt as they saw the sights and tried to locate the old carvings.

At least, that had been the plan. And then her mom's boss had scheduled some important mandatory meeting that she couldn't miss without risking her job security, and Ginny was left scheduling the trip alone. As much as she wished it could have played out differently, it really hadn't been much of a surprise. Many mother-daughter plans had been put on hold over the years as her mom moved up the corporate ladder, and Ginny understood the need to maintain momentum and curry favor with higher-ups.

Still, she thought as she surveyed the panoramic view before her, it would have been nice to have shared all of this adventuring with her mom.

In studying the journal, her great-grandfather had mentioned a path between two pines near the cliff before her. She looked around carefully for several long moments, and tried to imagine the flora surrounding her as it would have appeared nearly ninety years ago. She walked carefully along the edge of the drop-off and glanced down every now and then for a possible path. 

She was about to give up and turn back to hike down to the rental when she turned and saw two huge pines and a weed-choked path between them. It seemed promising, and she carefully passed between the trees and down a small decline to a lower section of the cliff face. “It said to turn left immediately,” she muttered aloud. She turned to her left, and sure enough, there was a wide enough pass for her to easily walk along the wall of rock and exposed roots.

It quickly grew quite hazardous, but Ginny – possibly very stupidly... okay, she'd admit, definitely stupidly – channeled her inner _Indiana_ _Jones_ and tackled it with determination and no small amount of luck. There was no way she flew over fifteen-hundred miles just to chicken out when the journey called for a little bit of rock climbing over what would surely be a fall to her death if she slipped up. Easy as pie, no big deal. Twenty-five wasn't a terrible age to go, anyways, she joked inwardly. Though, it would've been cool to at least make it into the twenty-seven club...

A few heart-pounding minutes later, she made it. The Flying Man, as her great-grandfather had called it, a larger-than-life image of a man with what appeared to be wings flared out from his back roughly carved into the stone just above her head.  _What a strange spot for such a work of art, _ she mused, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had gathered at her brow.

She pulled out her phone and captured a few photos to attach to a text message to her mom.

> “_Made it! It's huuuuuge, Ma. Bigger than me, though I guess that doesn't say much. Alsooo probably a good thing you couldn't make it. The path was maybe just a little bit dangerous...”_

She hit _send_ and paused, typing out one more message.

> “_I'm safe, though. Don't worry. Love you.”_

She turned to take one more photo, this one a selfie with a big grin on her face as she faced the drop-off with the carving at her back. Tucking her phone away into her backpack, Ginny paused to admire the carving one last time. 

It was strange here, the atmosphere. Maybe it was because she was standing in the exact spot one of her ancestors stood, likely one of only a handful of people over the centuries. Maybe it was because the carving was ancient and shrouded in mystery. Whatever it was, the air felt charged with... something. It felt all at once anticipatory and foreboding, and it pulled her in like a moth to the flame. It felt compelling, beckoning, almost hypnotizing. She drew closer to the carving, the thick tread of her hiking boots catching on small bits of rubble and debris as her feet scuffed against the rock beneath her.

The pockmarks and discolorations in the stone of the carving drew into intense focus, almost seeming hyper-realistic, too sharp for reality. Ants skirted the border of the carving, avoiding the carving itself as they marched single-file up towards the trees and bushes above. Moss had grown in a few spots, dark and plush and standing out in stark relief beside the deep border of the carving. Mint-green lichen coated irregular areas bigger than her hand all over the rock-face, but not anywhere near the Flying Man. Nothing living touched it, she realized distantly, but didn't examine the thought any closer.

What would happen, she wondered? What would happen if she touched it?

The logical part of her brain – the part that seemed to be speaking from far away, through a steadily-increasing fog – said that nothing _should_ happen, and what kind of nonsensical thought was _that_? _It's a rock. Rocks don't __do__ anything._

And yet, as she reached out, fingers grazing the rough stone, something  _ shifted _ . Time seemed to hold its breath, and the sounds around her – the birds up above her, the river down below, and the wind brushing past – suddenly stopped. It felt like that tiniest of moments just before the pin breaks the surface tension of a balloon, drawn out into a handful of seconds.

And then it  _ popped _ . And she was falling. And she was  _ screaming _ . And then there was nothing.

* * *

The first thing Ginny was aware of was a rock digging into her left hip. The next to register was the general sensation of pain along her left side, particularly in her shoulder, hip, and knee. She opened her eyes and was greeted with the sight of a river roaring past a short distance ahead of her.

_ I was traveling, _ she remembered.  _ Valentine. Aunt Ellen. The journal... _

_ The Flying Man. _

_ I fell...? I... shit, I  fell . _

She stilled, horror quickly descending upon her as she tried to take careful stock of her injuries. Did she break anything? Did she hit her head? How far did she drop? Can she call for help?

Who would hear if she shouted? She was in the middle of freaking  _ nowhere _ ...

Cellphone. Backpack. Can she move?

She carefully began to sit up, waiting for the shocking pain of a broken bone – or several – to hit her, yet nothing seemed to hurt more than the dull ache of her shoulder, hip and knee. Her head spun a little as she came upright and cautiously looked around, but she could see no severe damage. The real test, though... could she stand?

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Ginny slowly maneuvered her feet beneath her and stood, trembling with adrenaline and what she was quickly coming to understand as a near-death experience. “It's a freaking miracle,” she breathed, patting down her legs in wonder as she reaffirmed what she already knew to be true: aside from some bruising to her side, she was otherwise uninjured. She looked up to where she knew the rock carving to be and let out a  _ whoosh _ of breath. That had to have been nearly a fifty-foot drop, if not further, and it wasn't a straight shot down, either. There's no way she had missed those jutting boulders on the way down, and if she had, there's no way she should have been able to land without breaking  _ something. _

And yet, here she stood, mere feet from the Dakota River and barely even covered in dirt.

She removed her backpack to dig around in a side pocket for her phone, only to find its screen smashed from the impact. “Damned iPhones, what the hell,” she grumbled, shoving it back in and shouldering her bag. Taking a deep breath, Ginny turned to try to orient herself, and found a narrow dirt path leading back up the cliff, presumably to the top and then to the trail that lead back to the rental car. She took a tentative step forward, waiting for an injury to make itself painfully apparent, before carefully picking her way back up to the top.

It wasn't a long hike by any means, but it was increasingly uncomfortable, and she just wanted to get to the car so she could go back to her aunt's house (and maybe to the hospital so she could be one hundred percent sure she wasn't injured beyond the bruises.) She was exhausted by the time she made it to the trail back to the car, and was so busy processing what could have been a far nastier situation that she didn't immediately notice that the trail was less overgrown, and that the signs marking the different hiking paths were missing. Some distant part of her wondered if she was on the right trail at all, until she recognized the oddly-shaped boulder she had parked the car next to... only, the car wasn't there.

She froze, eyes widening in panic as she realized her situation just became  _ that  _ much more complicated. “Of  _ course _ , somebody stole my car! Why the hell  _ wouldn't _ today get any worse?” she shouted, throwing her arms up into the air and wincing a little at the ache in her left shoulder.

_ “I  hate this state!” _

* * *

_ _

It took a good hour of walking (and cursing) before Ginny reached anything even resembling a main road, and even then, it was still dirt. A man rode by on horseback and gave her a startled look before kicking his horse into a gallop and steering past her. “Thanks for nothing,” she muttered, kicking stones and forging ahead.

It took another hour before she came to another fork in the road, and debated waiting for some other cowboy wannabe on horseback to come along and give her directions to the nearest gas station. On the one hand, traffic was beyond scarce so far. She hadn't seen one car, even in the distance when she crested a small rise in the road. On the other hand, she  _ had _ seen a couple more country folks, decked out in old jackets and cowboy hats, riding past on horseback. They just kept riding past her, though, even when she called out to them.

She stood still, watching a large trail of dust dissipating far ahead of her and debating whether or not the wait would be worth the potential lack of help, especially with the sun now inching its way past noon. She  _ really  _ didn't want to be caught out here in the dark, with no camping gear and no flashlight to see by. The road ahead, where the dust had now seemed to settle, appeared to be well-traveled, so perhaps she'd find someone if she continued as she had been...

The sound of voices and hooves – and an odd, heavy-sounding creaking and groaning – drifted down the road towards her, and she watched as a horse-drawn wagon and two men slowly made their way to where she stood. They both glanced at her from beneath the brims of their hats, a careful watchfulness in their eyes and their conversation quieted. The older of the two, with a sun-weathered face and silver hair, gave a firm tug on the reins and pulled the team of horses to a slow stop.

Ginny – wondering privately why no one out here seemed to want to utilize modern transportation – took this as an opportunity to come close and hope these two men would be more helpful than those who had come before them. “Hey, I'm so sorry to bother you, but I've had one hell of a day and I'm really lost.”

The man removed his hat, setting it on his knee. “I'm sorry to hear that, Miss,” he said, his dark eyes squinting slightly in the sun and face taking on a sympathetic and softer expression. “How can we help you? Although, I should warn you, we aren't terribly familiar with the area ourselves.”

Ginny heaved a sigh of relief, and smiled up at the older man. “I'm visiting my aunt in Valentine. I was up here hiking and had a bit of a fall. When I came back to where I'd parked my car, someone had stolen it. If you could just point me in the right direction...?”

It could've easily been the way the sun hit his face, but Ginny caught what appeared to be a look of confusion cross his weathered features, before he placed his hat back on his head and took hold of the reins again. Her heart dropped, but before she could open her mouth to beg, he said, “Well, I believe we can do you one better. My name is Hosea, by the way. Arthur here and I were on our way in that direction anyway. If you'd like, we can offer you a ride close to town, Miss...?”

“Ginny, Ginny Sinclair. And thank you, sir! You have no idea how much better you've made my day!” she exclaimed, beaming up at him.

He returned the smile and gestured to his partner, “It's a pleasure, Miss Sinclair. Come around to Arthur's side and he'll help you up.”

Ginny skirted around the back of the wagon, thanking whomever was up there looking out for her for sending these kind strangers her way. Arthur had jumped down from his seat next to Hosea and stood to the side, waiting for Ginny to come close and climb in. She smiled up at him and offered another “thank you” before turning to the wagon and searching for a handhold to pull herself up. She must have hesitated a moment too long, because Arthur's gruff voice sounded behind her. “Need help?” he asked, and Ginny turned to nod and quickly found his hands around her waist, lifting her up to where she could easily grasp the bench seat and swing a leg up into the wagon. Her heart fluttered at being touched by a stranger, but she stifled the runaway thought of how big his hands were and how strong he seemed as she scooted close to Hosea and removed her backpack.

“Thank you again, Hosea. I really appreciate this. You have no idea how many people just passed by without even bothering to ask if I was alright!” She felt the wagon dip as Arthur hauled himself back up into the wagon and settled in next to her.

Conversation continued comfortably between her and Hosea, and Arthur remained quiet and watchful. Hosea kept the horses at a sustainably quick pace, and Ginny openly marveled at the novel experience of riding in a wagon.

“You've never been in a wagon?” Hosea asked, polite but also a little surprised, Ginny thought.

“I mean, not like this.” In reality, she'd only ever been around horses and wagons at the fair, and there was that one time a couple of big horses pulled the parade float when she had been in her high school band.

Hosea nodded, and it was about then that Ginny noticed the shotgun resting against Arthur's knee... and then the gun belt around his waist... and the bandolier around his broad chest. “Y0u, uh... you do a lot of hunting, Arthur?” she asked, curious about why one man would ever need to carry so much firepower on his person.

His blue eyes slid in her direction, and his lips twitched slightly upwards before he said in that gruff drawl of his, “Somethin' like that.”

Ginny nodded, pretending she knew what he meant. “Yeah, my dad used to hunt a lot. I never could get into it. He came home pretty often with deer and whatnot, but there was that one time he brought home a moose. Have you ever had moose?”

Arthur nodded, apparently not feeling chatty.

“My mom hated it, but Dad and I enjoyed it for a good long while. We made all sorts of things with it. Moose burgers, moose steaks, moose chili...”

* * *

The sun dipped closer and closer to the horizon, but it was still a good few hours before dark when Hosea pulled the reins and coaxed the horses to a stop. “I'm afraid this is where we part ways, Miss Sinclair. If you follow this road here another half-mile or so, you should come right up to the train station in Valentine.”

Ginny gathered up her belongings and reached out a hand to the older man. He paused, but quirked a smile and gripped her hand in his larger, calloused one and shook. “Thank you, Hosea. You're a life saver.” She grinned and then turned to find Arthur already out of the wagon and waiting for her. She stepped to the edge and he lifted his hands to help her down. She blushed, but placed hers on his shoulders to steady herself as he brought her down to the ground.

She grinned up at him, and held a hand out to shake his in thanks. He hesitated, but like Hosea, took her hand gently in his work-rough hand and shook. “Thank you, Arthur. I'm really grateful to you both. I don't know where I'd be right now without your help.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked off to the side. “'S no problem, Miss. Get back to yer aunt's before it gets dark.” He climbed up into the wagon without a backwards glance and Ginny waved to them both as they continued on their way.

_ People aren't nice like that back home, at least not in the city, _ she mused, smiling to herself before continuing on the last stretch to the city limits.

* * *

She quickly realized that something was... off.

Shouldn't the roads be paved this close to Valentine? It wasn't a metropolis, by any stretch of the imagination, but it also wasn't this rural either.  _And where are the cars?_

More and more people were passing her on horseback or in small wagons, and she began to wonder if perhaps Hosea had misheard her when she mentioned the name of the city, or if he was even less familiar with where he had been going than he'd thought. Maybe he brought her to the wrong place?

As she paced down the road, buildings became visible in the distance, and she could safely say that she was  _not_ where she thought she had been. Even if he had brought her to a different part of the city, she should have been able to see the towering steeple of the Catholic church in the distance, or at least  _some_ buildings over three stories tall. Instead, with mounting tension and simmering panic, she realized she could only make out a number of old farmhouses and wooden structures. Not one single brownstone in sight. The shrill whistle of a train brought her attention to the train station up ahead, and she watched a long, dark train slowly make its way down the tracks away from town.

She passed a sign coming in, and froze as she read a single word carved carefully into the weathered wooden slab:  _Valentine_ .

_No... that can't be right..._

_Are there two towns named Valentine? Is this some sort of cowboy, western convention or something? What the hell is going on?_

She stopped a bearded man making his way up the steps to the train station. “Sir, where am I?” she asked, trying not to appear as frantic as she felt.

He gave her a funny look, glancing from head to toe before answering simply, “Valentine, Miss.” He plodded the rest of the way up the steps and out of sight.

_Not. Possible._

She grabbed another man's elbow as he was walking past, “Sir, is this some kind of convention or something? Like a Cowboy Con or whatever? This isn't Valentine.”

He yanked his arm away from her with a look of supreme disturbance. “Get away from me, woman. It's clearly Valentine, and you've clearly been drinking or worse.” He stomped away without a backwards glance and Ginny spun around, quickly feeling the numbness shock replace the over-sharpness of panic.

“Newspaper! Git yer newspaper!”

She wove blindly between pedestrians and horses, apologizing robotically when she bumped into a young woman in a bustling dress. She felt her foot sink into something thick and slippery, but didn't bother to look down and determine what it had been. She was far too busy looking _up_, analyzing the wooden structures lining what was apparently the main street and reading their signs as she passed. She found a young man in a wool cap holding up a newspaper at the corner of what appeared to be the general store.

“Please, Sir, I'm so hungry!” a man's voice called out from across the street, and she found a soldier in a civil war uniform. He was missing an arm.

She blindly began to cross the street, spinning slowly as she took in the church on a hill, the general store and what appeared to be a gun shop, the Sheriff's office and... and a doctor's office. She knew that building. She'd seen photos of it hanging in the lobby of her aunt's apartment building. She'd grown up looking at it, analyzing it while waiting for her aunt to come downstairs and bring Ginny and her mother up to her apartment. She recognized the doctor that stood on the front porch, with his sleeked back hair and dark vest. She recognized the giant, boldfaced lettering that spelled the word “DRUGS” just above the window centered over the porch roof.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be, for a million different reasons, and yet... when she examined all of the facts that had been presenting themselves all day since she woke from that fall – the horses, the dirt roads, the abundance of weapons and funny looks, and this century-old snapshot come to life...

Well it came down to two explanations. Either she had hit her head and was currently comatose, living some fever-dream until she either dies or wakes up, or...

Or she somehow managed to travel back in time.

The world spun around her and someone shouted, sounding as though they were calling from the other end of a long tunnel. The ground rushed up to meet her and everything went black for the second time that day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny attempts to catch her bearings in a strange and unfamiliar place, while deciphering cryptic entries in her great-grandfather's journal to find a clue to where - or when - he could possibly be.

Ginny pushed sweat-drenched bangs away from her eyes with the back of her forearm and sat back on her heels. It didn't seem to matter how often she scrubbed at these washroom floors, they accumulated dirt and... well, judging by the smell, _shit_... faster than she could keep up.

She huffed and shoved the floor brush back into the pail of soapy water and swished it around before pulling it out and scrubbing the floorboards nearest the metal tub, gritting her teeth to avoid grumbling audibly. She'd made that mistake a few times too many and had been scolded by the innkeeper for being ungrateful after all he'd done to help a “poor, confused young woman” like herself.

And it was true, she had to admit. She'd awoken on a stiff examination bed at the Valentine doctor's office to the worried looks of two men and an older woman, and was quickly urged to lay back down and breathe deeply and slowly. One of the two men was the town doctor, and he'd offered her a glass of what smelled to be a strong alcohol. She'd declined and covered her face with her hands, desperately trying to catch her bearings.

“Where am I?” she had asked, hoping someone of this group in front of her would disprove the outrageous conclusion she had come to.

“Valentine, Miss,” the doctor had replied, gently pushing her hands aside and leaning in to check her eyes. “You appear to have fainted in the street, and Mr Williams here was quick enough to catch you before you fell fully into the mud.”

She'd glanced to the second man, younger than the doctor and sporting much less facial hair. “Thank you, Mr Williams. I'm sorry for the trouble.”

He'd looked down at his feet, twisting his cap between his dirty hands and mumbled, “'S no trouble at all, Miss.” He'd seemed shy, and out of place, as though he wanted to go but felt he shouldn't.

“She will be just fine, Mr Williams,” the woman had said, patting his shoulder and gently ushering him out the door. “You've done a great thing by helping her, and the Good Lord will reward you for your kind deed, I'm sure of it.” He'd glanced back at Ginny over his shoulder before the door closed behind him and hesitated for a moment on the porch, then ambled back onto the main street.

“I'm Mrs Arden,” the woman said as she approached Ginny and perched at the foot of the examination bed. “I happened to be visiting with Doctor Calloway when you were brought in. Are you well, dear? Mr Williams said you'd looked quite frightened before you fell.”

“W-well, I... I'm not sure,” Ginny began, glancing to the doctor to find his eyes fixated on her intently as she spoke. If this really was nineteenth-century Valentine, then she didn't think these kind strangers would take very well to the idea of a time-traveling girl from the future. She'd learned enough of what was done to women who were considered insane in this time, and she didn't want to find out firsthand precisely how bad it could be. No one would believe her, and she'd be locked up or lobotomized or worse, and she'd never be able to find her way back home.

Mrs Arden had put a soft, wrinkled hand on Ginny's shin, and fixed a kind gaze on her face. “You're safe here, dear. What is it?”

_If _she had time-traveled – and that was a big _if _– then that could mean that the cryptic entries her great-grandfather had written in his journal about falling into a different time _might_ hold some degree of truth. And if that were the case, then perhaps...

“I'm looking for a relative of mine, actually,” Ginny said suddenly, “Francis Sinclair? I'm not from around here, and I was, um... I was overwhelmed by everything when I walked into town.”

Mrs Alden had looked to Doctor Calloway with questioning eyes, and Ginny looked up to see that the doctor appeared just as unfamiliar with the name she'd given them. _It was worth a shot,_ she'd thought, and waited anxiously to see what was in store for her. In reality, she was completely at the mercy of these two strangers.

What had happened next was a whirlwind series of events that culminated in Ginny being introduced to one of the Valentine innkeepers, Gerald French, who'd offered her room and board in exchange for housekeeping services. Mrs Alden had tutted and fussed over Ginny's clothing, calling the jeans and flannel she wore “unbecoming” and “hardly appropriate,” and how on _earth _had her uncle Francis not informed her of his recent move, or set up accommodations for her stay in Valentine? And he hadn't even _bothered_ to send for an escort for his niece! The nerve! She'd then generously offered to give Ginny a few outfits that had belonged to her granddaughter that she suspected would fit comfortably, if not perfectly.

Ginny learned quickly how to properly layer her new clothing... and _very_ quickly learned to hate whoever it was in history that had invented the corset. Her modern clothes were stashed away, along with her backpack and her great-grandfather's journal, in the bottom of the trunk at the foot of her bed.

Mr French, the innkeeper, was more than generous in his offers, and Ginny suspected that Mrs Alden had a hand in that, as well. He didn't believe in going easy on her, though, and despite the menial – and often dirty – work that she was expected to push through, Ginny had to admit that she respected his refusal to coddle her. She needed the grunt work in order to focus and reorder her thoughts around this whole... time-travel thing. It felt strange to think the words still, and she wondered if it would ever _not _feel strange.

In her spare time, she'd read and re-read as much as she could decipher from her great-grandfather's journal, trying to figure out where – and _when_ – he would be. She and her mother had noted early on how he'd stopped writing the years when he'd dated his entries, and that his ramblings became more convoluted and almost cryptic, as though he had been hiding information from someone else. He'd spoken of falling – much like Ginny herself had experienced – and then a long journey, a “new, yet old home” by a lake, and finally, this entry, which she had memorized:

In her sophomore year of high school, Ginny had painstakingly completed a heritage project for her health class, tracing ancestry back up to four generations on both sides of her family tree. She'd built – with her father's help – a three-dimensional grapevine, with each leaf representing a member of her family. The leaves displayed the person's name, their birth and death dates (where applicable), and known medical conditions to trace the line of hereditary illnesses or unique conditions which appeared in her family. It had been an interesting project, and her mother had especially enjoyed helping her with the genealogical aspect of it, being herself a fan of history.

From that project, random information had seemingly become permanently stuck in Ginny's memory. Great-aunt Maria Romano on her mother's side had diabetes and died at a young age from complications with her kidneys. Uncle Fred, her father's brother, is allergic to shellfish and nearly died from eating fried clams – that was how he'd found out. And great-grandpa Francis Sinclair, who had married later in life, fathered three sons, and died in his sleep in 1987 of heart failure, was born in 1899.

One of the first things Ginny had done when she'd settled into the inn was check a newspaper to get an idea of when exactly she had landed. It was May, of 1899. Which meant, if she was interpreting his final entry correctly, that she had very little time to try to find him before he either managed to return to whatever year he'd fallen from, or he committed suicide.

_That wouldn't be possible, though, would it? _she thought to herself, pausing mid-scrub and staring at the water soaking into the wide grain of the wood floor at her knees. _Because if he died now, then he wouldn't go on to get married and have kids, which means Grandpa Joe wouldn't have been born, and then Dad wouldn't have been born... and then I wouldn't have been born? Would I just... stop existing?_

A knock at the door jolted her out of her musings, and Mr French's voice echoed into the small, sparsely furnished washroom. “A guest has arrived, Miss Sinclair.”

That was her cue to finish up and make herself scarce. She didn't want to be asked to assist any of these stinking sheep farmers in their bathing, as if they were infants and unable to wash themselves. She'd made it quite clear to her employer – when she'd learned what a “deluxe bath” entailed – that she would be willing to do anything he asked of her, _except_ that. One mild argument later, Mr French had conceded that it wouldn't be proper to expect a “virgin” to be in the bathing room with naked men. She knew he doubted that she'd been telling the truth about her supposed chastity, judging by the apathetic stare he'd leveled at her, but he wouldn't put himself in a situation where his good name could be smeared, and so he'd let it go.

She wiped her hands dry on the work apron she wore over her long gray skirt and picked up the metal pail, dumping it out the window that opened to the back of the building. She then went about filling the tub and arranging a few towels and toiletries in easy reaching distance before finishing up and leaving the room for the guest.

She heard a deep, gruff male voice as she made her way up the stairs to her next task, and vaguely thought it sounded familiar. When she peeked toward the front desk from around the railing at the top of the stairs, she only saw the innkeeper. She dismissed the thought and continued about her day.

* * *

“I'm going to the saloon to get a meal!” Ginny called over the front desk, and Mr French grumbled some form of an assent from his room. She patted the pocket in her skirt to make sure she had some coins to pay for a bowl of stew and maybe a drink before leaving the inn and crossing the busy main street to the saloon. It was only just starting to get dark out, but the crowd at the saloon was already hooting and hollering and generally making a ruckus. With not much else to do in the cattle town, the saloon was the hot place to be for most of the farmhands and shepherds at the end of a long day of work.

Someone was playing at the upright piano in the corner. A couple tables crowded with men hosted card games, and a few women draped over the shoulders of some of the players there. The bar was overcrowded, and a group of two men and two women stood at the end closest to the door. Judging by the low cut of their blouses, Ginny guessed these women were here for work, not leisure.

Finding an opening further down the bar, she leaned in to get the bartender's attention and ordered a bowl of whatever was available, and a whiskey. He nodded to show he'd heard her and finished serving a couple other customers ahead of her. As she waited, Ginny quietly observed the crowd around her. One of the poker matches was looking a little tense, but she didn't see anyone reaching for guns just yet. She had yet to witness an actual gunfight in her two weeks of living in Valentine, but she'd heard one from this direction just last week when she was getting ready for bed. She knew how quickly alcohol and badmouthing could lead to violence.

She looked over to another corner and found an obviously drunk man leaning in near a woman who was fluttering a fan near her chin. The woman was smiling, shoulders back against the wall behind her and mouthing something unintelligible from Ginny's distant viewpoint. The man swayed and messily slapped a hand on the wall near the woman's curled hair to steady himself.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye near the front door, and turned to observe the newest patron to the saloon. Something seemed familiar about the set of his shoulders and the shape of his jaw from beneath the brim of his hat, and she turned to look closer. His head lifted and Ginny froze when she recognized those sharp blue eyes, realizing that she was gaping at one of the men who had helped her when she had gotten lost outside of Valentine. What was his name? Adam?

His eyes passed over her without stopping, and then he spotted the group of four at the end of the bar.

Not Adam. It _had_ started with an “A,” right?

He moved in the direction of the group at the bar, and one of them turned and noticed him. “Oh – Arthur,” he called, grinning as he set his drink down and turned to face him.

_Arthur, that's right,_ Ginny thought, _Arthur and Hosea_. She watched as he approached his... friends? Maybe? They seemed familiar, but Arthur's expression remained a little tight. The girls started flirting, and Arthur smiled at them and said something that made them leave in a huff. The men that remained seemed sorely disappointed, and Ginny stifled a smirk.

She was debating going over and striking up a conversation with him, but didn't want to interrupt whatever was going on between him and his friends. _Besides_, she reasoned, _he probably wouldn't even remember me._

A steaming bowl of mystery stew was set down at her elbow along with a tumbler of whiskey, jolting Ginny out of her people-watching. “Here ya go, Miss. There's a few tables upstairs if ya want to take your meal someplace a little less rowdy.”

She thanked the bartender and carefully picked up her bowl and glass, weaving through the drunken crowd and up the stairs. There wasn't much available for seating, but there was one free table on the other side of the landing where a man was standing up and putting on his hat, likely to head home for the night. Ginny settled in and began eating slowly, trying not to identify too much of what was mixed into the slop. The whiskey helped to wash it down.

Several minutes passed as Ginny ate and drank in her little corner of the saloon, watching the people around her and catching glimpses of the crowd downstairs through the railing. There was some boisterous laughter and shouting, but nothing out of the ordinary. Just a normal, average night at the saloon –

The shouting sounded different now... angry, almost. The music stopped abruptly. The volume in the building grew considerably, and Ginny could hear the sound of fists impacting against flesh.

_Great. Bar fights with gun-toting cowboys,_ she thought to herself, quickly tossing back what was left of her whiskey and rising from the table to look for a safe exit before bullets were bound to start flying. She could see a few men ganging up on one of the guys that Arthur had been talking to, and then all of a sudden Arthur himself was there, yanking one of the assailants away from his friend. She stood, almost transfixed, watching in increasing disturbance as the man who had held her so carefully just a couple of weeks ago landed a few carefully aimed, _powerful_ hits to the one he'd grabbed, knocking him out cold. And then he went for the next guy, and then the next... anyone who came at him lasted mere seconds before being laid out flat. A couple landed some hits themselves, but overall... nothing seemed to faze him.

It was almost frightening, this contrast between the kind stranger and the violent cowboy picking his way through the bar fight below her. She stepped back from the railing, chiding herself for being so surprised. It wasn't like she _knew_ the man, honestly. It was just... unsettling.

Movement from the hallway ahead of her drew her attention back to the landing, where she saw Tommy – a veritable giant of a man and notorious for his ill-temper – stomping his way towards the ruckus. She held still, watching in mounting horror as the man zeroed in on one of Arthur's friends. This was not going to be pretty.

And then Arthur stepped in. The brawl almost seemed to pass in slow motion, as the man she'd been warned to steer clear of landed heavy hits and took a few himself. They scuffled out of sight and then the sound of shattering glass filled the air.

_Someone is going to get murdered tonight_, she thought morbidly, and quickly made her way to one of the doors that lead to the stairs outside of the saloon, intending to run across the street to the relative safety of the inn before she got caught up in all this madness. As she rounded the corner by the rain barrels, she skidded to a stop, keeping well within the shadows of the building to watch the all-out brawl happening right in the middle of the street.

Arthur was on top of Tommy, face bruised and covered in mud, a dead-eyed scowl contorting his rugged features. Tommy stopped fighting back, arms limp beside him in the mud and manure that always filled the street.

Arthur wouldn't stop. Not until someone ran up and pulled him off, begging him to have mercy.

Ginny leaned back against the wall of the saloon, bracing one hand on a rain barrel and holding her stomach with the other. She'd never witnessed an actual fist-fight before, and she was reeling. The human capacity for brutality was nothing new to her, not with how easily shared and propagated fight videos and police violence photos were on social media sites and even in the news. She'd just never seen one in person, heard the sound of fists on bodies, the crunch of bones and grunts of pain. It was raw, and reminded her of exactly how dangerous this time in history was... and how vulnerable she was while she remained.

She had to figure out how to get home, and finding her great-grandfather was her best bet. The crazy theories and stories he'd scrawled in his journal – however logically impossible – were apparently quite real. If anyone would know what she should do, it would be him. But there was so little time –

She was suddenly jolted out of her thoughts when water splashed beside her.

Arthur was there, washing his face and combing clumps of mud out of his hair with wet fingers. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, but otherwise didn't seem inclined to acknowledge her.

She stared, and then realized she was probably being quite rude by not saying anything and nervously asked, “Are you okay?”

He slapped some mud from his jacket sleeves and grimaced. “I'll be fine, thank you.”

She watched quietly as he busied himself with removing the biggest gobs of mud and who knows what else from his person. “You're Arthur, right?” she asked.

He stilled, turning his head to look her up and down. She wondered if he recognized her at all. Probably not, given how dark it was... and that they'd met only the one time, weeks ago.

“Depends on who's askin',” he responded, eyes glinting slightly in the dark.

She turned to fully face him, extending her hand. “I'm Ginny, Ginny Sinclair. You probably don't remember me, but – ”

His posture relaxed slightly and he took her hand, shaking gently. “You're the girl that got lost. We gave you a ride back to town.”

She smiled. “That's me!” Ginny laughed nervously, searching for something to fill the awkward silence.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Did you, uh... didja find your aunt, or whoever it was you were lookin' for?”

Surprised, she glanced back up at him. “N-no, she's not here anymore. I'm actually looking for my, uh, my uncle. Francis Sinclair? Have you heard of him?”

He shifted on his feet and looked off to the side, seeming to search his memory for the name. “Sorry, Miss Sinclair, I can't say that I have.”

“No, that's alright! I didn't really expect you to.”

Silence took over again. He fiddled with his hat as he held it in front of him, and she shifted her weight to one foot. She looked up at him through her lashes, trying to figure out what else to say. He was one of the only people she was even vaguely familiar with in this time, which made him an almost comfortable presence. And yet, she'd just watched him beat a man twice his size half to death. He was obviously capable of inflicting quite a lot of harm, but was he dangerous? Could she reconcile what she'd just watched him do, with the impression he'd first made on her?

Surprisingly, he spoke first. “So are you staying with family while you're here?”

She pointed over his shoulder at the inn across the street. “No, I'm staying there. I'm cleaning there and earning my keep while I try to figure out what to do next.”

Arthur nodded, obviously struggling with the conversation just as much as she was. “A-are you, um, are you around Valentine often?” she asked.

His eyes seemed to gleam a little in the dark as he assessed her. “Often enough. I'm not too far from town myself, most days.”

“Would you be willing to keep an ear out for my uncle? And come see me or send me a letter or something to let me know if you hear anything?”

He was quiet a moment, watching her and sucking his teeth contemplatively. “Francis Sinclair, you said?”

She nodded, fingers curling in the front of her skirt.

He put his hat on and nodded, wiping one last bit of muck from his thigh before he looked up again at her. “Sure, I can do that. Let me walk you back over to the inn, assuming that's where you were headed?”

Ginny beamed up at him and fell into step to his right, awkwardly tucking her hand into his elbow as he offered it to her. “Thank you so much, you have no idea how relieved I am to know that I may be one step closer to finding my uncle. You're a good man, Arthur.”

She caught the cynical half-smile as they came into the halo of light from the inn and the toothy grin dropped from her face. “All due respect, Miss Sinclair, but you have no idea what kind of man I am.” He caught her concerned look and gently removed her hand from his arm, opening the door for her. “But, I suppose, one good deed never hurt nobody.”

He held the door wide and pinned her with an appraising look, blue eyes dark in the lamplight and features still covered in mud and muck. She returned it, and weighed his words against his actions before smiling up at him. “All the same. Thank you. Goodnight, Arthur.”

She turned into the lobby, not once looking back over her shoulder at the cowboy lingering at the door. He muttered something before she heard his boots thudding against the porch as the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

Ginny had trouble falling asleep that night, revisiting the brutality of the bar-fight and the gentleness with which Arthur had escorted her up the steps and into the inn.

She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of someone snoring through the thin walls of her room, a giggle floating up between the floorboards from downstairs, and a horse whickering out below her window.

_You have no idea what kind of man I am._

He was right, and she knew it. But there was something at odds with the way he spoke and the way he behaved. A fight was one thing, and it was obvious from that alone that he was well-versed in the ways of knocking people into next week, perhaps even worse. _Likely even worse_, she mused, remembering the weapons holstered at his hips and the ones he'd been holding in the wagon back when he and Hosea had picked her up. But this was a very different time, where laws were still new, and the American ideals of civilization and society were in their infancy in this part of the country. It was far more likely that one would settle disputes with a gun in this time and place than in twenty-first century Portland, Maine. Heck, even in _this_ time in Maine, things might be just a bit more civilized than this glorified sheep-farm of a town. Not for the first time, Ginny wondered how it was possible for such a small town to transform into a small city with its own little airport in such a short amount of time. _The marvels of human ingenuity in this industrial age, _she thought, sighing deeply and rubbing at her eyes.

Arthur's demeanor was gruff, a bit sharp around the edges. But his eyes belied an intelligent and calculating mind, and spoke volumes more than his words did. He didn't know her from any other woman in this town, and yet he was willing to help in her search for her “uncle” Francis. That consideration was what had sold her. He'd displayed it when he and Hosea had picked her up those weeks ago, as he wordlessly helped her into and out of the wagon as though the action didn't even require thought, it was just that natural for him to assist someone in need, regardless of how much they did or didn't really require it. She saw it again when he'd been fighting at the saloon – how he'd had his friends' backs and took on their enemies as though they were his own. And she saw it later, when he'd offered to escort her across the street. He may not have been a gentleman, but he certainly was capable of civility and honor.

She rolled to her side, picking shapes out in the dark against the wallpaper and trying to empty her mind. Eventually, her eyes drooped and she fell asleep, the anxiety of time inexorably moving forward shifting to the back of her mind.

* * *

Another week came and went, with Ginny developing a personal routine to work through her chaotic thoughts and slowly building some semblance of a plan to find Francis Sinclair. She had very little to go on: a house, possibly new, located near a lake. She wasn't sure precisely _where _her great-grandfather had been born, but she knew it was somewhere near or possibly within the state of New Hanover. However, as if to make the monumental task of finding one man in a significantly large part of the country harder, his writings seemed to suggest that he (and possibly someone else, too) traveled widely while stuck in this time, searching for his way home. He could literally be anywhere on any given day, but she had decided that her best bet may be to find the house he vaguely referenced in his last entry.

Maybe, when she found him, she could ask him about the rock carvings he drew in his journal, and figure out what link they had to this crazy time-travel nonsense. She was afraid to go back to the one she'd come from, after a dream she'd had a few nights ago that she'd returned and touched it, only to fall through time yet again and ended up even further back in the past. What if her dream was less the product of a tired, over-active imagination, and more of some sort of premonition?

Her thoughts circled and wove like this throughout each day as she set about her routine, causing the days to pass even faster than usual. Waking and cleaning, then eating and cleaning, then cleaning some more until the evening came and it was time for supper. Then, she'd go to sleep and start the process all over again the next morning.

She was starting to grow restless, especially as more time passed since she'd last seen Arthur. She'd hoped to have heard at least _something_ by now, positive or negative. She kept asking people who came in from outside of Valentine if they were familiar with her great-grandfather's name, but no one could give her what she was looking for.

Ginny found herself out on the front porch one hot afternoon, sweeping away the dust and dirt that had accumulated since the day prior. A customer was in the washroom at that very moment, and the other cleaning girl, a woman in her early thirties named Anne, was otherwise occupied on an errand at the general store. She wouldn't be surprised if Anne was delaying coming back to avoid cleaning out the big tub. It was hard, and often-times gross work, but needed to be done at least once per day – though, in all honesty, Ginny wished it would be done after every customer. Hygiene in this day and age was certainly _not_ what she would consider adequate. Or safe. Ginny always waited until it had been freshly scrubbed (or cleaned it out herself) before taking her own bath, but still never managed to feel quite clean enough, knowing precisely how dirty some of Valentine's menfolk were when they came in for their wash.

She brushed a sizable pile of dirt off the side of the porch and rested her folded hands on the end of the broom handle. One of the horses tied up at the hitching posts in front of the inn snorted and shifted on their hooves, and Ginny turned to observe the animal. It was tall but sleek, and a beautiful dark brown with a black mane and tale. She couldn't tell for sure from her vantage point, but she thought it might be a girl. The horse stared back, blinking passively and bobbing her head a little.

Ginny looked around for the owner, wondering if it would be against current societal etiquette to pat a stranger's horse. Seeing no one overtly watching her, she set the broom against the wall and slowly made her way to the edge of the porch in front of the beautiful mare. “Hey, pretty girl,” she said softly, holding a hand in front of her as she took careful steps forward. “Or at least, I _think_ you're a girl. I hope you aren't offended if you're a boy, but boys can be pretty, too.”

The horse watched her, ears flicked forward and stilling as Ginny cautiously sat down at the edge of the porch, her legs and skirts dangling between the porch and the hitching post. “Well, aren't you just beautiful? May I pat you?” she asked, holding her hand out, palm up to the animal. “I don't have any treats, I hope that's okay.”

The horse sniffed noisily at her palm and huffed, but she lowered her head towards Ginny regardless, seemingly comfortable for the moment with just some attention.

“Yes, I know, how thoughtless. I apologize,” she cajoled, slowly brushing her fingers down the horse's face and speaking softly to her. “It's been a rough few weeks, girl. I needed this.”

“Anybody ever tell you not to touch horses that don't belong to you?”

Ginny jumped, slightly startling the horse with her sudden movement. “Holy crap! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean anything –” She whipped around and saw none other than Arthur leaning casually against the wall near the doorway. He must have come from inside, she reasoned, because she wouldn't have missed someone walking up the steps right next to her.

“It's you!”

Arthur smirked a little as he pushed away from the wall, stepping down off the porch and standing next to the horse. He brushed a hand down the mare's neck and scratched near her jaw, eliciting a pleased sound from the animal.

“This is Athena,” he offered. “Haven't had her for very long, but she's a good girl.” When Ginny remained still, staring at him, he nodded towards her. “You can pat her, y'know. I was just teasin'.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and continued brushing her fingers against the mare's soft face. “Thanks, Arthur. Sorry for not asking first,” she said softly, relaxing slowly into the comforting sensation of patting an animal.

“'S alright, Miss Sinclair. No harm done.”

They passed a few moments in silence. Eventually, Ginny looked up and found Arthur's eyes already on her face. “Y'know,” he started, pulling something out of the satchel at his hip, “I came here for a few reasons.” He offered her the item, and she looked down to find some hard candies. Before she could question it, Athena sniffed wetly at her hand and started lipping at her fingers, attempting to take the candies. She looked up at Arthur and he nodded, so she took that as a cue to offer them to his horse. Athena made quick work of them, and Ginny could suddenly smell the coolness of peppermint. She smiled at the horse, some of the worries that had manifested in her expression melting away.

“What reasons would those be?” she asked, brushing at Athena's forelock.

“First and foremost, I needed a bath,” he said, and Ginny chuckled.

“I'm sure. And?”

“Well, while I was here, I figured I'd drop by and find you. I know it's probably not what you wanna hear, but I haven't seen or heard anything about your uncle. I just wanted you to know I hadn't forgotten.”

She couldn't help but feel a little crestfallen, but she tried to hide it. “I understand, and I appreciate you letting me know.”

He eyed her, and she felt the weight of his calculative gaze like a heavy blanket. “You're upset,” he stated, not really asking.

She bit at her cheek and looked away. “Yes and no. I didn't expect you to find him, I'd just hoped by some miracle that you would. But realistically, I always knew it was an impossible idea. I'm just running out of time.”

Arthur shifted to lean up against the edge of the porch, facing out toward the street. “What d'you mean, 'runnin' outta time'? You in a hurry to get back home?”

“Kind of. I just...” she stopped herself, afraid of giving away the wrong information and losing this one connection to even the barest hint of familiarity in such a strange place. She huffed, and Athena prodded at her shoulder for attention.

“I need to find him. He's the only one who can help me get back.”

Arthur glanced sidelong at her. “Why can't you just take a train back to wherever it is you came from?”

She paused in her ministrations against Athena's forehead. How to be honest, but not _too_ honest? “Because I need to find him first.”

Arthur seemed to chew on this for a moment before he nodded and pushed away from the porch, untying his horse's lead from the hitching post and swinging up into the saddle in an easy, practiced motion. Ginny dropped her hands into her lap, a little disappointed that her horse therapy was over so soon. She watched as Arthur carefully guided Athena back into the street, patting the mare's neck affectionately as he encouraged her.

“The last reason I wanted to come here, Miss Sinclair,” he said, lifting his eyes to hers and taking full hold of the reins. “I wanted to warn you. There's a lot of unsavory type folk around these parts, and trouble has a habit of showing up in places like this. Take care of yourself.”

She nodded, frowning as he urged the dark horse into a trot and disappeared around the corner of the inn. What kind of cryptic, creepy warning was _that_? Valentine had felt safe – well, safe-_ish_ – for the last few weeks, and Ginny had yet to run into any sort of trouble... outside, of course, for that one time where a man tried to “purchase her services” at the saloon. He'd thankfully fallen into a drunken stupor right at the table and she was able to make a hasty retreat back to her room at the inn and lock her door. What “trouble” could he possibly have meant? Was he just looking out for her, or was he trying to say something without outright saying it?

She shook her head and leaned back on her hands, huffing a sigh as she looked across the street. A man standing outside the door of the general store across the way caught her eye, his green vest standing out among the crowd of patched overalls and dirty button-down shirts. He seemed to be staring at her as he lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the mud past the porch of the store, though it was hard to tell for sure from this distance.

Arthur's gruff voice echoed in her mind, and Ginny shook her head and grumbled to herself. “Great, now he's got me paranoid.”

She stood up and irritably brushed at her skirts before grabbing the broom and returning to her chores and daily monotony. It was time to focus on an exit strategy and figure out how to find the elusive Francis Sinclair.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact #1: Did you know that the doctor in Valentine may be Jim "Boy" Calloway's son? According to the Red Dead fandom wiki, his name is Ben Calloway. There is a sign outside of the building with his name on it. A couple fans (That-specific-user and darkgreenmeme) posited on Reddit's r/RDR2mysteries subreddit that it could be possible that Doctor Ben Calloway is related in some way (son, brother, nephew) to the washed-up gunslinger, and that perhaps that's the reason why we find him in Valentine when you begin the mission "The Noblest of Men, and a Woman."
> 
> (Apologies for such a delayed update! I've been struggling with where, exactly, I want this to go. That, and life has a habit of turning writing time into a scarce commodity. I'm a slow writer, but I promise I'm constantly thinking of this story. I'm working on building a backlog of chapters so that I can update on more of a schedule, but we'll see how that goes. In the meantime, thank you so very much for your patience and understanding!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny has a close encounter, forcing her to speed up her plans to leave Valentine. Unfortunately, nothing seems to work out as she hopes.

It was not often that Ginny had an opportunity to go anywhere outside of the inn or the saloon in Valentine, and so when Mr. French asked if she would be willing to deliver a handful of letters to the post office, she eagerly accepted the task.

Valentine was not a beautiful town by any stretch of the imagination, but there was a sense of growth and anticipation that settled like sunshine over the muddied streets and mostly wooden buildings. The scents of sawdust and sweat mingled in the humid air, not a pleasant smell but not the worst thing she'd encountered here by far. Laughter and haggling alike came from every direction as the farmers and working men went about their busy day. She kept to the main street, keeping half an eye on where her feet settled in the mud to avoid piles of animal dung, the rest of her attention on the goings on around her.

A couple of the townsfolk recognized her and offered up a wave or a nod as she passed by, which she returned with a small smile and a nod of her own. She'd been careful not to get herself attached to any of the locals, knowing she'd be moving on soon enough.

She rounded the corner where the newspaper boy was stationed, giving a brief glance to the headlines before continuing on toward the post office. The weather was mild and the sun on her skin felt like a small promise for the future, bolstering the sense of determined hope she'd been nurturing in the days since she'd last seen Arthur. His warning had spooked her, but had also served to light a fire under her feet, pushing her to develop a solid plan. She'd since acquired a small map of the tri-state area, marking where she believed the carving she'd fallen from to be, and circling the small town of Valentine. She'd lightly traced over the most direct roads between the two with a worn down pencil she'd found tucked into one of the drawers of her room, memorizing the distance and the turns she'd need to take if she were to attempt to go back to that stone.

She was concerned enough about being sent further back in time to decide that this would be her back-up plan, the one that she resorted to only when everything else had failed. Every other idea was just that: an idea, a clouded list of things to do with no leads and no solid directions to follow. She needed to find Francis Sinclair. She needed to ask him questions, to figure out what he knew and what he didn't. She needed to figure out if there was another way to get home, if these other carvings he'd hinted at were the most direct way to get there. She needed to find a way to travel, preferably safely. She needed to know what to bring with her, and probably figure out how to hunt for herself. She didn't relish the idea of that.

Frowning slightly, she looked up as she neared the train station that doubled as a post office, observing the few horses hitched outside and the piles of luggage being brought to and from the long, black train that hissed and groaned at the front of the building.

She thought she recognized the pretty brown horse grazing at the hitching post in front of her, but then saw another similarly-colored mare around the corner of the building, and another trotting past with a farmer perched in her saddle. To an untrained eye, they all looked about the same, and so she shrugged and wondered what exactly someone like Arthur does with his days.

The door creaked on its hinges as she made her way into the station, casually observing the few people milling about as they grabbed their belongings to get onto the waiting train. She waited in a short line at the postman's window until it was her turn to hand over the sealed letters and pass over a few coins to pay for postage.

“Miss, may I ask you to wait to the side a moment?” the postman asked, gesturing to the line behind her. “I believe I saw a letter for your employer earlier. After I've helped these gentlemen, I'll see if I can find it for you.”

Ginny nodded, stepping away to stand by one of the many windows facing the train. “Not a problem. Thank you.”

The postman resumed his duties and Ginny leaned against the window frame, wondering if she'd need to take a train to find her great-grandfather or if he was closer than she thought he might be. A trio moved toward the train, and she found her gaze drawn to a young man dressed in an odd, white outfit as he climbed aboard. A woman soon followed, turning back to accept her luggage from a man in a dark cowboy hat and dusty jacket. She spoke with him a moment, her expression earnest and then pained as she turned and entered the car. With a shrill whistle, the train began to lurch forward, and the man stepped back to watch the car the other two people had disappeared into fade away through the smoke left behind.

Arthur turned around, his expression tight and attention drawn inward.

Ginny blinked, shocked and realizing she'd likely just witnessed a very private moment for him. Perhaps this woman was his wife, or a lover? Who was the boy, then? He didn't seem old enough to be a father to a teenager, but... well, it was the 19th century, and people started families very young still.

Regardless, it really wasn't her business, so she stepped away from the window before he could look up and see her staring at him like some sort of creep.

* * *

Ginny spent her free time – what precious little there was of it – studying her map and the journal, trying to decipher where her great-grandfather could possibly be. She stashed away as much of her earnings as she could and only spent what was needed on food and the occasional survival item. So far, she'd picked up a compass, a watch, and a simple hunting knife. The gunsmith had given her an odd look when she'd stopped by to pick out the knife, but only offered advice when asked and showed her how to keep it clean and free from rust.

She was keeping a checklist on the back of her map of things she thought she might need. The list seemed to be growing faster than she could keep up with, but it was a step in the right direction. She knew she could very well end up alone in the wilderness, and she needed to be able to take care of herself. She had her eye on a book she'd seen at the general store across the street, regarding useful plants and where to find them. She planned to purchase it when she had another short break, and then speak with the butcher around the corner about how to prepare small animals for eating.

She hummed quietly to herself as she swept the front porch of the inn, barely paying any mind to the people and animals around her as she focused on what her next steps toward going home might be. A shadow fell across her as a man made his way up the steps, pausing until she looked up and made eye contact with him. He wore a dusty leather jacket and a satiny green vest, hair slicked back and face mottled with sweat and dirt. She stopped what she was doing, grip tightening slightly on the broom's handle, and waited to see if he would speak.

He slowly appraised her, taking in her work apron and her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, eyes lingering at her chest before he slowly brought them back up to her own. Her skin crawled, and she braced herself to scream for help, but then he simply turned and strode into the inn.

Ginny shivered in spite of the mid-afternoon heat, and forced herself to turn back to the task at hand.

Several moments passed as she carefully swept away clumps of dirt, being sure to gather the clods left behind from the man's boots and push them off the porch along with the rest. Mr. French poked his head out from the door and motioned for her to come close.

Before she could ask what he needed, she noted the troubled expression on his face and frowned. “Miss Sinclair,” he began quietly, glancing behind him into the lobby. “I know your preference on the matter, but I must request that you assist a customer with his bath.”

“Mr. French, you know I--”

“Yes, yes, I know. But I must _insist,_” he hissed, eyes wide as he again threw a glance over his shoulder into the lobby. “If you comply and do as he says, all will be well.”

Her stomach dropped into the vicinity of her ankles. “What do you mean, 'do as he says?' What does that even mean?”

His knuckles were white on the door as he gripped it. “Please, Virginia. Please, he requested you specifically, not Anne, and...” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, “It will be very bad for all of us if you do not comply.”

A part of her wanted to scream, to rage at him, _'what about __me__ and __my safety__?'_

Another part of her wanted to run for the Sheriff's office, considering the _look_ this man had given her and the apparent threats he'd offered to her employer. But time was running short, and she wondered if Mr. French would drag her into that bathing room kicking and screaming if she refused.

He didn't give her time to think, simply grasped her elbow and firmly guided her into the building. She left the broom where it fell from her shaking hands. He whispered advice as he gently lead her to the bathing room door, telling her to smile but not too widely, to keep conversation to a minimum to avoid irritating the guest, and to only wash him when he requested it. “I will be right here, should you need anything,” he offered quietly, and she wanted to laugh at the idea of this shivering, fearful man protecting her from _anyone_, let alone the man behind that door.

Her knees shook, and her skin went clammy as she wondered what would be waiting for her in that room. She didn't give herself time to think as she raised a hand and knocked softly on the door. “Do you require assistance?” she asked, praying he would have changed his mind in the time it took Mr. French to get her inside.

“It's about damn time,” a heavily accented voice said, muffled by the door. “Come in, would ya?”

She schooled her expression, breathing slowly as she opened the door, slipping inside and keeping her eyes anywhere but on the naked Irishman in the tub.

“Yer a shy ting, aren't ya?” he chuckled, gesturing for her to come closer. “Come 'ere, I won't bite.”

She did as she was told, coming to stand beside the tub before daring to glance at his face. He smiled up at her, but his dark eyes showed no mirth. He'd apparently not bothered to wash anything while he'd waited for her, judging by the dirt still smeared on his forehead and cheeks. She managed to keep the quavering out of her voice as she asked, “How may I help you?”

He tilted his head and gestured for her to kneel beside the tub. “Well, fer starters, I'll have ya wash me arms, I tink.” He wiggled his fingers at her from where his forearms were draped over the sides of the tub. “From there, I suppose we'll see, eh?”

She nodded shallowly, grabbing a washing cloth from the tray suspended over the tub, and dipped it into the sudsy water. He watched every movement she made like a snake preparing to strike.

“Bathing girls aren't usually so quiet, in my experience,” he said, watching as she dragged the cloth up his arm.

She clenched her jaw, willing the time to pass faster. “I haven't got much experience as a bathing girl,” she said honestly, rinsing the cloth and wringing out the dirty water before returning to her task.

He chuckled again. “Oh, is that how 'tis, then?” He leaned forward, face suddenly far too close to hers. “Am I yer first, then, sweetheart?”

She leaned away from him, mouth sealed shut as she waited for his next move. When she remained silent, he leaned back and smirked at her. “How about you wash me face next, hm?”

She scooted closer on her knees, trying to figure out how best to do this without touching him, before deciding to hell with it and carefully sliding the cloth against his cheek with one hand and holding the side of his face with the other to keep him steady. He briefly closed his eyes, sighing in a way that made her want to crawl out of her skin. Her fingers shook against his jaw.

“Nervous?” he asked, opening his eyes to stare at her closely. “I figured after seein' you with one o' Dutch's boys, you'd be a little more... comfortable with touchin' a man.”

She paused. “What?”

“Oh, it's not a judgment on yer character, love. Bathing girls tend to have a bit of a reputation anyways. But seein' how close the two of yous were, well...” he shrugged slightly, relaxing against the back of the tub as she scrubbed against his neck and shoulders.

She frowned, irritation and nerves getting the better of her as she replied, “You shouldn't assume things like that. And I really don't know who you're talking about.”

He gripped her wrist, water splashing onto her blouse. “Oh, now that's a lie,” he grinned, pulling her closer by her arm. “I happen ta know fer a fact that you were makin' eyes at Arthur Morgan, and that Arthur Morgan is Dutch Van der Linde's right-hand man.”

She floundered, trying to yank her wrist out of his grip. “I-I didn't know who you meant, but yes, I've talked with him. But you're saying he's what, in a gang or something?”

He laughed, “Or sometin', all right. Is he sweet on you, love?” He positioned her hand on his stomach under the water, gesturing for her to begin washing him there.

She did as requested, careful to keep her hand higher on his abdomen. “Not that it's any of your business, but no, I doubt that very much.” Especially after seeing him with that woman at the train station.

He hummed, hand rising to guide hers further down. She struggled against his grip, eyes widening as she realized what he was trying to get her to touch.

“S-sir, I'm not going to wash that! Let go!”

“You mean ta tell me ol' Arthur Morgan never had ya touchin' him like this?” Her fingers brushed against him, and she jerked herself back as far as she could.

“Stop!”

A knock sounded on the door. “May I fetch anything for you, sir?” The voice belonged to Mr. French, saving the day in the only way he likely could.

The man let go and she tumbled backwards, water splashing all over her and the room. He casually reached for the chair where his gun belt was resting, maintaining eye contact with her as she froze on the floor. “No, tanks, mister. I tink we're all set here, aren't we, love?”

She remained silent until he lifted the gun from its holster, and then called, voice shaking, “W-we're fine, Mr. French. Thank you.”

Hesitation, and then Mr. French's voice sounded through the door again, “Alright then.”

The man waited a few more moments, eyes on the door to see if the innkeeper had the stones to open it and order him out. Unsurprisingly, Mr. French did not.

Ginny remained where she'd fallen, shivering with fear and adrenaline. His hard stare returned to her, assessing and debating while he absently bobbed his revolver up and down.

“Where are Dutch and his boys holed up?” he asked baldly, tilting his head back against the tub.

She shook her head slightly, wetting her lips as she struggled for words. “I'm really sorry, I – I don't know who you mean. I've never heard of whoever this 'Dutch' guy is, and before now, I didn't even know Arthur's last name.”

He seemed to mull this over for a few moments as she watched with bated breath. “Is that so? He's never told you a ting about where he's been stayin'?”

A part of her wanted to be brave and tell him that even if she _did _know, she'd never tell him. But she wasn't brave, she was terrified. This situation could go wrong in so many ways, and she didn't feel inclined to push her luck any further. So she simply shook her head.

He chuckled. “Never heard of Dutch Van der Linde or his gang, have ya?” He shook his head. “Have ya been livin' under a rock, or are ya dumber than ya look?”

She wisely kept her mouth shut at the insult.

A few more tense moments passed before he sighed and set his gun down and reached for a second wash cloth. “I'm not in the habit o' forcin' myself upon unwilling women. Get out.”

She thought briefly that she hadn't heard him correctly, but shot to her feet at his pointed stare. She was nearly to the door when he said casually, “And stay away from Dutch's Boys, or else Colm O'Driscoll might take an interest in ya. We O'Driscolls have a history o' breakin' their pretty little toys.”

She was out the door before he'd finished speaking, not bothering to make sure the door didn't slam shut as she left. The warning the Irishman gave her echoed like a gunshot through her mind, and she didn't bother to stop and speak with the innkeeper as she nearly sprinted out the front door and into the street.

* * *

If she hadn't left all of her belongings back at the inn, Ginny might have just kept walking. Eventually, sense and logic overrode the fear and adrenaline, and she made the decision to turn back and return to the inn.

She made a stop at the stable first, though, hoping to inquire about pricing and possibly lessons if any of the stable hands had time to spare. The owner, Amos Levi, was a little wary of her interest at first. Likely because of how intently she was questioning him. She realized a little belatedly that her eyes may appear a little crazed after... the incident. She didn't want to think about it, though, and barreled ahead.

“You've never ridden before?” he asked, brushing down a strong-looking shire horse while she watched, mentally noting how to potentially care for one of her own.

“No, not since I was a child. And I'm pretty sure ponies don't count, not when it comes to this.”

He was silent for a short time, the only sounds that of the brush swiping down the animal's shoulder and the occasional snort from one of the stabled horses.

“I'm not sure I can spare the time myself, nor any of my stable hands,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“I'm willing to help in whatever way I can to lessen the burden. I don't have much to offer for money, but I can feed and water the animals or muck out stalls or clean equipment if it means you'll help me.” She hoped she didn't come across as too desperate, arms crossed as she waited for his response.

He set the brush down on a nearby bench, patting the horse on its neck as he turned to face her fully. Judging from his expression, she didn't think he'd give her the answer she was hoping for.

“Look, Miss. I'm sorry. As much as I would like to help you, this just isn't something we're equipped to do here. I can't in good conscience sell you one of these here horses if you don't know how to ride, and neither I nor my workers have the time to train. My answer is no.”

The panic was lingering at the back of her mind, wondering how in the world she was going to get out of this town if she couldn't find a way to transport herself. She stuffed it down and plastered a smile on her face, thanking him before she turned and walked out of the barn.

The inn loomed just across the street, suddenly seeming much more imposing and dangerous than she'd ever thought before. She wasn't safe there. Hell, she wasn't safe _anywhere_, not when she had no weapons or training, no transportation, and there were apparently gangs of cowboys and outlaws running amok right under her nose.

And evidently Arthur was a key player in one of them.

The world _had_ been slowly righting itself through all of the recent nonsense of time-travel and mystical rock carvings. Now, it was twisting itself into pretzels and inverting reality all over again. She could trust no one, regardless of what she thought their intentions were.

She needed to get home.

No, she needed a _drink,_ and _then_ she needed to get home.

She fixed her eyes on Smithfield's and began to trek through the mud and the manure to what she hoped would be a good, strong glass of whiskey, only to stop suddenly at the sight of two men in green neckerchiefs and one in a green vest in front of the saloon.

Her skin turned cold and clammy, and she swiftly did an about-face and did her best not to sprint to the relative safety of her room at the inn. She couldn't be sure he hadn't seen her, but she hoped the lock on her bedroom door would be enough of a deterrent if he did decide to wander after her.

* * *

Mr. French quietly paid Ginny twice her usual weekly earnings the following morning, his form of an apology and a recognition of how dangerous the situation had been that he'd forced her into. She didn't bother with any gratitude, and barely made eye contact before she went on about her daily chores. If he felt snubbed by the attitude, he wisely chose not to show it.

The morning was spent cleaning the bathing room and preparing it for their first bather. She refused to linger any more than necessary and informed Anne that she didn't have time to keep up with the bath today. To her credit, Anne simply nodded and accepted the extra responsibility. Prior to Ginny, she'd been used to taking care of the entirety of the inn alone, and it really wasn't much trouble. Especially as Ginny proceeded to clean the rest of the inn with single-minded focus for the rest of the day, barely taking a moment to rest until it was time to eat some form of supper.

Rather than eat at Smithfield's, as she normally did, Ginny instead made her way to Worth's General Store – carefully cataloguing the street for any telltale green vests or scarves before even bothering to step out the front door. Worth's was typically much quieter at this hour, with most everyone else next door at the saloon and uninterested in perusing the canned goods and other odds and ends in the shop.

Jacob Worth stood behind the counter, thumbing through a new copy of the _Wheeler, Rawson & Co._ catalogue. He barely glanced up at her when she entered, halfheartedly lifting a hand in what could scarcely be considered a wave. She nodded just as halfheartedly, choosing instead to browse the shelves for something small to eat before grabbing that copy of _The Field and Garden Vegetables of America_ by Fearing Burr that she'd had her eye on. It was a bulky guidebook, but she had a strong feeling it would prove useful in plant identification so she could avoid accidentally poisoning herself.

She brought her selections up to the counter, waiting for Jacob to glance up at her. “Enthralling read?” she asked, smiling at him as his attention jumped up to her.

He cleared his throat, cheeks turning a little red as he reached for her purchases. “Not especially,” he admitted, ringing her up. “It's just that some of these advertisements are eye-catching. I'm thinking I might purchase myself one of these vests.” He pointed to one on the page, and looked up at her expectantly. “Do you think this might suit me?”

She held back a small smile, scanning through the product description and realizing he likely was choosing it not for it's fancy appearance, but because it mentioned something about being “attractive to the fairer sex.” She glanced up at him through her lashes and back down at the depiction before nodding. “Mr. Worth, I think you would look simply dashing in this vest.”

His posture shifted as his chest puffed slightly with pride. “Then I think I should order it today.”

Something in the catalogue caught her eye and Ginny felt compelled to ask, “If I were to attempt traveling for a significant amount of time, what would you recommend I take with me?”

He stopped wrapping her book to appraise her for a moment, chewing on the corner of his mouth in thought. “Well, if you were a seasoned traveler, I'd recommend a tent and bedroll, a good and warm jacket, rope, hunting equipment, and plenty of food. Fishing equipment wouldn't hurt, either. I remember you bought that map and compass a few days ago, and those ought to go with you.”

“And if I was not a seasoned traveler?” she asked, creating a mental list to add to the back of her map.

He resumed wrapping her book and said, “I would recommend you take one with you. It's not safe out there for anyone to be by themselves, but especially not a woman, and _most especially_ not a woman who has not traveled and survived alone before.”

She frowned in thought, trying not to let his advice cause her to doubt herself.

He pushed her purchases across the counter to her, and leaned forward to catch her eye. “Listen, Miss Ginny. I don't know what traveling conditions are like back where you're from, but out here? Parts of this country are still wild, run by men who don't care much for morals and rightness. You don't want to go alone. Whatever it is you're trying to do, just... wait a little longer. You've got the look of someone who's ready to bolt, and that ain't the right frame of mind to be in if you're going to face the lawlessness and wildness of these territories.”

She sighed through her nose, digesting his words and pushing back her anxiety. He was right, and he had some sage advice, but...

She was running out of time. She couldn't afford to wait much longer. “Can I order a tent and bedroll, please? Nothing fancy, I can't afford that much. Just something to get me by when the time's right.”

He frowned, but nodded as he pulled out an order form.

* * *

Ginny nearly ran into him headfirst as he was stepping out of the inn.

“Whoa, now. Where's the fire?”

She steadied the box of crackers, can of peaches and wrapped book in her arms before she looked up at the familiar, sun-kissed face of Arthur Morgan. “Oh,” she said simply, glancing over her shoulder to see if that Irishman was still loitering about.

He seemed to pause at her lack of greeting, twisting his head slightly as he looked her up and down. “You alright, Miss Sinclair?”

The Irishman's warning echoed in her ears as she swallowed thickly. “Um, yeah, yes. I'm fine, just... gotta get back to my room,” she explained, hoping he wouldn't take too much offense at her refusal to chat with him. _Besides_, she reasoned, _the man's a gang member. I don't need to be friends with him._

He watched her closely, eyes narrowing slightly when she refused to make eye contact with him. Yet, he still persisted, much to her increasing panic. “Can I help you with that?”

_You can help by going away before that O'Driscoll man sees us talking and decides I need to die for it, _she thought desperately, glancing over her shoulder again. “N-no, I'm good. Thanks.”

He swiped her things out of her hands anyway, earning a startled yelp from her. “So, funny thing just happened,” he said, holding her belongings out of her reach. “I was just inside lookin' for you when Mr. French happened to mention that you'd had a rough time of it with someone yesterday, and that he was concerned on account of you not bein' back yet.”

She scowled up at him and crossed her arms defensively, realizing he wasn't going to let this go. “And, what of it?”

“Now, I'll admit I don't know you very well,” he said, lowering his arms but not relinquishing the items. “But in the few times I _have_ spoken with you, you've been nothin' but smiles and friendliness. So I reckon whatever happened yesterday was enough to get you pretty rattled.”

She chewed on the corner of her mouth and looked away, down the street toward the saloon and doctor's office beyond. “So?” she asked quietly.

He shifted in her peripheral vision, eyeing her intently. “So, I wanna know what happened.”

“Why?”

“Because just the other day I warned you about some folk 'round here, and today I find out something happened.”

“I mean, why does it matter to _you_?” she asked, swinging her head back around to hold eye contact. “You said it yourself, you don't know me. I don't know you. Why does it matter if I had a run-in with someone?”

He was silent for a few moments, studying her expression and her posture, marking her defensiveness and reluctance to give him a straight answer. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said softly. “He just frightened me.”

He moved to sit on the front steps, setting her things off to one side and patting the wood planks next to him. “Talk to me about it.”

She stared at him for a moment, puzzling over what she knew about him and what she was seeing. A supposed high-ranking gang member, someone who likely robs, cheats and kills on a regular basis, and yet, somehow, he's interested in the shit day some random girl had at work?

It didn't – _he _didn't make sense to her.

She sighed, still standing as he craned his neck to look up at her. “What if you don't want to hear what I have to say? What if I know something I shouldn't?”

He was silent, his face expressionless as he watched her. He didn't answer.

She huffed, crossing over to him and sitting down heavily beside him. He'd been nothing but helpful and polite with her up until now. He'd given her no reason to believe that would change, regardless of what she was told by some random creep with a grudge.

“I don't work in the bathing room,” she began. His eyes flicked over to her as she spoke, but he remained facing forward, letting her speak without interruption or judgment. “I have a – _had_ a deal with the innkeeper that I wouldn't be made to work in the bathing room. I have no interest in helping grown men wash themselves as if they've forgotten how to do it on their own. I also have no interest in being around lonely, naked men. Mr. French had agreed to that when he took me on to work for him. Until yesterday.”

She explained the way the Irishman had looked at her, and then how he'd requested her attendance in the bathing room. How frightened Mr. French had been and how he'd offered only to stand outside the door, otherwise uncaring about her safety. Arthur's hands were clasped in front of him as he leaned forward on his elbows, and she thought she saw his knuckles tighten out of the corner of her eye as she spoke of the man and his handling of her.

“He made me wash him, and I tried not to talk to him but he wouldn't shut up. He says he knows you.”

His head jerked to the side to look at her, but she avoided his gaze, bulldozing forward. “He said you're some big-shot in a gang and that I shouldn't be hanging out with you. Not because of you but because apparently _his_ gang hates your guts and would kill me just to make a statement.”

“Did he touch you?” he asked, voice low and quiet. When he talked like that, she realized she didn't have such a hard time picturing him as the outlaw type.

“No, not like that. I mean, not _exactly_.” He stared at her, and she squirmed. “It's not a big deal,” she said quietly. “He didn't force himself on me. He told me to leave after he threatened me.”

He was silent for a long moment, before he stood up suddenly and ran his eyes up and down the street, picking out and marking faces and features in the half-light. “Damn O'Driscolls,” he growled, glaring toward the saloon.

She watched him, observing his tense posture and the trained wariness in his features. “It's okay, Arthur.”

He rounded on her, eyes narrow. “No, it ain't. You're lucky he didn't do worse to you.”

She wisely remained silent, letting him fume before he dropped his head and hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. The quiet between them was tense, yet thoughtful.

“You still plannin' on leavin' to find your uncle?” he asked suddenly, and she eyed him cautiously.

“Yes?”

“When?” he asked, eyes catching the lamplight and shadows sharpening the edges of his face.

“W-well, I don't know. As soon as possible, I guess?”

“Come with me,” he said suddenly, baldly.

She looked up at him in shock. “What?”

“Come back to my camp with me. We may be outlaws, but we're good folk, most of us. I'll help you find your uncle when I'm not needed elsewhere, and you can stay with us in the meantime. You'll be safe and fed, and the girls will keep you company. The food ain't the best, and I can't guarantee you'll have a nice bed to sleep in for a while, but there's plenty to do to keep you occupied while we try to find your uncle.”

She hesitated at that. “I'm not an outlaw, Arthur. And I have no interest in stealing and killing.”

He nodded. “I ain't askin' you to. I don't much like the idea of you stayin' here with O'Driscolls sniffin' after you, especially if they think you're more connected to us than you are.”

“Won't this _make_ me more connected to you and your gang?”

“Probably, but at least you'll be safer this way.”

He had a good point. Several of them, in fact. She needed the help, and here he was, offering that and so much more. But the idea of living with a gang, knowing how fraught with violence and lawlessness this area could be... it was like jumping from the frying pan and into the fire.

But... they couldn't be all that bad, right? If Arthur was this willing to help someone he barely knew, and if he was such an important person in this gang... did that mean that the rest of them were like him? Was she willing to gamble on that?

She had one last question: “Why?”

His response was simple. “We shoot people as need shootin', save people as need savin', and feed 'em as need feedin'.”

She smiled slowly. “Doesn't sound like such a tough gang to me.”

He smirked. “You'll probably feel like that even more when you meet all of 'em.”

He offered her a hand to help her stand. She carefully took it, noting the calluses and roughness of his fingers and palm, his skin warm against hers.

“So, is that a 'yes', then?” he asked, eyes darting back and forth between her own.

She inclined her head a little, “Well, why not.”

He smiled briefly, teeth shining in the lamplight, before he sobered once again. “Well, then. Are you feelin' up to stayin' one more night in this mess? I could take you back tonight, but I'd like a chance to let Dutch know to expect you.”

Dutch. He was the leader of this gang of outlaws. What kind of man must he be to lead a band of criminals, and yet create an environment where someone like Arthur could exist? What exactly was she agreeing to walk into?

She took a steadying breath and returned her attention to his question. “Yeah, I can stay one more night. I'll let Mr. French know I'll be leaving.”

He nodded, turning to walk down the steps toward his horse, which he'd left hitched across the street.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then?” she called after him, watching his back as he stalked away.

He turned toward her and continued walking backward, head tilting up slightly as he smirked. “Bright and early.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thank you for your comments and kudos! ❤ Please let me know if the O'Driscoll's dialogue was a little too hard to follow. I was inspired by Sean's accent, and wanted to replicate it without going too overboard. If it's too much, let me know and I'll go back in and change it. I was feeling kind of iffy about it anyways.
> 
> Also! I wanted to include customized journal entries to incorporate a little of Arthur's thoughts on all of this. I have a couple already but wasn't sure if it'd disrupt the story too much. Thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur brings Ginny to Horseshoe Overlook, and she tries her best to leave a good first impression.

Morning took its sweet time coming, though Ginny supposed her inability to sleep had much to do with it. Her mind was running a mile a minute, speeding through scenarios and potential questions she'd be expected to provide answers for, imagining what would happen if Dutch didn't care for whatever first impression she made. How many members were there? What kind of people would she be living with? And for how long?

She desperately wanted to believe that Arthur was right, that they were mostly good people. She hoped she could fit in, but knew from her experience in this small town so far that she was likely going to be fighting an uphill battle on that front. She tried to talk like the people around her, careful to avoid phrases and words that might be ahead of this time. Despite the clothing she wore, she knew she didn't look like she belonged. Would this problem improve or worsen in a camp setting? Would there be a hierarchy that she'd need to follow? Would she get special treatment, and consequently would she gain enemies from being brought in by Dutch's supposed right-hand man?

How long would she have to pretend to be someone that she wasn't?

She'd packed as soon as she had returned to her room, and then thought perhaps the backpack would look too odd. Would anyone question it? Could she just pass it off as being a common item from back home? It was all that she had, however, and so she left her few items and clothes packed into it – modern clothes and broken iPhone carefully tucked beneath everything else at the very bottom of the bag – and thanked whatever chaotic forces got her into this mess that it was a simple and worn LL Bean canvas bag and not a bright patterned bag with fancy pockets and velcro.

She kept the journal and map out for most of the night, studying both of them by candlelight until she was sure she'd memorized every punctuation mark and crossroad. When she grew bored of that, she stood and paced back and forth across the room, practicing what she might say when Arthur introduced her to Dutch. Then, she figured it would do no good overthinking conversations that haven't even happened yet, so she packed her journal and map into the bag and set everything on the floor next to the bed so she could attempt to get some sleep.

She ended up laying awake for over an hour, unable to keep her eyes closed for more than thirty seconds at a time, despite knowing the exhaustion she would feel the following day. She could not get her mind to stop racing, and so she shot up out of bed, lit the candle at her bedside again, and brought it over to the small mirror by her dresser. She brushed her hair methodically, focusing all of her attention on styling it _just so_, in the hopes that at least this aspect of her would look the part. It was difficult to gather all of her long hair up, but with the help of a dark hair elastic that she'd had on her since before she woke up in this century, she made it work. It blended just fine into her hair, and she figured no one would ever notice it anyway. She'd gotten a little better at achieving the simple pinned up-do that many young women of the time favored, especially after watching Anne style her own hair a few times.

At this point, she had exhausted any ideas to pass the time, so she spent a long while just staring out the window to watch the sky gradually lighten from a deep black to a dark blue, the stars gradually starting to wink out.

_He'd said bright and early,_ she thought to herself, seeing the sky shifting to lighter and lighter hues as the sun prepared to rise over the horizon. _How early is 'bright and early?' And how bright does it have to be?_

She started pacing again, hearing the sounds of the town beginning to wake up as roosters crowed and dogs barked. She heard Anne start moving around next door, drawers opening and closing and water being splashed into a basin so she could wash up. Ginny followed suit, deciding washing her face and neck was probably not a bad idea, and at least kept her from staring out the window again. Anne left her room and began walking down the hallway, on her way to begin the day's chores. Ginny almost felt badly for leaving the entirety of the inn to her once again, but she also knew that this was nothing new to her, and chose not to give into the guilt of adding to the other woman's workload.

She heard Mr. French speaking distantly, probably to Anne as she passed the front desk. More time passed, and Ginny took to pacing again.

The sky lightened to a soft pink and threw her room into color, almost making it pleasant. As the light sharpened, however, it only served to highlight the sparse furnishings and dull colors of the wallpaper and furniture. She paused at Mr. French's raised voice coming from downstairs. He sounded alarmed, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. In all reality, he could have just seen one of the few rats that had made their home in the walls downstairs. She smiled at the thought, and then she heard slow, heavy footsteps coming up the stairwell and then down the hallway.

“All right, all right, calm down!” a deep voice called, and instantly she recognized it as belonging to Arthur. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulders and moved to blow out her candle, adrenaline and nerves making her tremble a little. A knock sounded on her door, and she rushed to open it, finding him standing awkwardly in the hallway. “'Mornin' to ya,” he said, mouth quirking up in a half-smile. “Hope I'm not here too early.”

She grinned. “You did say 'bright and early.'”

He ducked his head and smirked, his face hidden briefly under the brim of his hat. “That I did. C'mon, let's go.”

She adjusted her backpack and followed him down the hall to the stairs, shaking a little as the reality and weight of her decision to jump into an unknown setting with a man she barely knew finally hit her full-force. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, and Arthur stopped a few steps down, sensing that she'd paused. His blue eyes analyzed her, noting how she held one strap of her bag in a white-knuckle grip and was grasping the wooden handrail as if her life depended on it.

“You alright?” he asked moving up a step to stand at almost eye level with her.

Her eyes scanned his face, shifting back and forth as she struggled to gain control of her nerves. “My mom always told me to be careful about who I choose to trust.”

He nodded. “She sounds like a wise woman.”

She bit at the inside of her lip, and then finally asked, “Can I trust you, Arthur Morgan?”

He didn't answer immediately, but she could tell it wasn't because he was avoiding the question. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, so she waited.

“I'm not a good man, Miss Sinclair. I've done a lot of bad things, and I'll probably do more before my time is done. But you can trust me to look out for you.”

They stood there for a long moment, reading one another as she digested his words and matched them up against his actions. Her trembling gradually stopped, and she slowly released her death-grip on her bag and the railing. “I'm choosing to trust you,” she said, and her expression and tone were both grave. He nodded wordlessly, and turned to walk down the stairs again.

This time, she followed without hesitation.

* * *

She didn't know why she hadn't thought about it earlier.

Arthur was standing beside Athena and staring at her expectantly.

Ginny was frozen on the bottom step of the inn, staring at the animal in front of her.

“So, I think I should confess something to you now. I probably should have earlier,” she said, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Arthur remained silent as he watched her, waiting for her to go on.

She bit her lip. “Um... I don't know how to ride.”

Arthur's brows furrowed and his eyes squinted up at her in confusion. “What d'you mean, you don't know how to ride?”

She threw her hands up, causing the horse to flick her ears back and take a small step away from her. “Sorry,” Ginny said to Athena, forcing her hands back down to her sides to grip her skirts. “I mean, I've never been on a horse before. Well, I _have_, but as a kid. And pony rides at the fair don't count. They're tied to a pole, they don't go anywhere.”

Arthur seemed to have trouble digesting this information, brows furrowing further. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Rude,” she chided. “I'm twenty-seven, but what does that have to do with anything?”

He snorted. “I was roping wild horses by the time I was seventeen, so excuse me if I find your inexperience humorous.” She crossed her arms and he held out a hand to placate her, chuckling. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. C'mere, I'll help you up.”

She frowned at him, but went forward regardless.

“Now, I'm gonna lift you up, and you're going to have sit side-saddle just behind me. You ready?”

She nodded, but could do little to prepare herself for his hands on her hips as he lifted her up onto the mare's back. She felt her face reddening and tried to will the blush away as he settled her into her place just behind the saddle. He looked up and she could see him smiling in the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “You good?” he asked, and she gave him a brief dip of her head as she placed her hand on the back of the saddle to keep herself steady.

She watched as Arthur took the reins and flipped them carefully up over Athena's head to settle them around the horn of the saddle before gripping the horn, placing one boot into the left stirrup and hoisting himself up into place. She leaned to avoid the spur on his boot as it came around beside her before he sat down fully and brushed a hand down the side of the mare's neck. She heard him muttering to the horse and praising her for being so still, and it made her smile a little to see such a soft side to such a big and tough-seeming man.

He sat up and turned partially to her, catching a glimpse over his shoulder to see how she was faring so far. “Ready?” he asked, taking the reins up into his hands.

“I think so,” she replied, wondering how bad it would hurt to fall from this height and whether or not she should be concerned about being stepped on if she did.

“You're gonna want to hold on, Miss Sinclair,” he advised, visible eye crinkling at the corner as she realized he meant to have her hold onto _him_.

“O-oh,” she said, and gently placed her right hand – the one closest to his back – high up on his ribs, curling her fingers lightly into his leather jacket.

He shook his head and she could feel him chuckling more than she could hear him. “I'm not gonna bite ya, Miss Sinclair. Hold on tight, now.”

She took a deep breath and steeled herself, wrapping her arms around his middle and leaning into his back. “Like this?” she asked.

“Much better,” he said, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. He clicked his tongue and nudged the horse into a slow walk, allowing Ginny a chance to get used to the movement of the animal beneath them. She had a feeling he could feel her trembling through his jacket, but she was relieved when he failed to make any jokes at her expense. She looked behind them as they turned the corner to see the town bustling to life, but her eyes stopped on a man in a satiny green vest standing on the porch of the saloon. Her eyes widened, and her grip on Arthur's jacket tightened even further as the corner of the inn obscured her view of the Irishman – the O'Driscoll – and his knowing grin.

“You alright back there?” he asked, and she could feel his voice vibrating through his chest and into hers as she leaned into him.

“Y-yeah, I think so,” she stuttered, waiting to see if the man would come riding after them.

Arthur urged Athena into a faster pace, and soon they were leaving the outskirts of Valentine behind them, with no sign of any O'Driscoll's in pursuit. It wasn't until the town was completely out of view that Ginny began to really relax, getting used to the bouncing and jostling of the horse beneath her.

“Dutch is eager to meet you,” Arthur said casually, and returned her attention to the meeting that was about to take place.

“He is?” she asked, hoping she could glean some pointers so she didn't royally screw up this first impression with the leader of a literal gang of outlaws.

“Sure,” Arthur replied. “He can be... a lot to take in at first. Man's got dreams and big ideas about everything, but he's been like a father to me for a long time.”

Ginny nodded, watching the landscape around them changing, copses of trees becoming more common the further they rode.

“I think the girls will like you. They can be a little much at times, but they all have big hearts and will take to you easily.” He went on like this for a little while, and Ginny had the feeling he was probably trying to ease her obvious nerves by giving her as much information about the gang as he could before she actually had to meet them all.

Eventually they began to ride off the dirt road onto a slightly worn path into the woods, and Arthur pulled the mare to a slow stop. “Now listen, before we go in there, there are a few rules I should mention.”

She stared up at his face as he peered at her over his shoulder, fingers clutching loosely at his jacket.

“The first is that we all have our part to play. Nothing gets done around here otherwise, so if Miss Grimshaw tells you to do something, do it. She's been running this camp as long as I've been around, and there's a reason for it. Be respectful and do your share, and she'll treat you well.”

Ginny nodded, a small part of her regretting jumping headlong into this decision without thinking about this part of it.

“The second is that you don't steal from the gang. If you make money, a share of it goes to the gang. If you manage to hunt, a portion goes to the gang. We work together to keep everything running.”

“Okay, that seems fair enough.”

Arthur nodded. “Lastly, you don't talk to outsiders about us. I'm sure you understand why.”

“Makes sense,” she replied, chewing at her lip in thought. After a beat of silence, she asked, “Anything else I should know before we go?”

He seemed to think for a second, eyes looking off into the distance. “Just... stay away from Micah, if he ever bothers to show up.” He left it at that, and she chose not to pry.

He urged Athena forward and Ginny jumped at the sound of a raspy voice calling out from the trees, “Who goes there?”

“It's Arthur!” he called back, and then muttered to himself, “Dumbass.”

She smiled nervously as they trotted forward and passed a man with longer dark hair and a scar across his face. He watched them suspiciously, and Arthur said over his shoulder by way of an introduction, “That's Marston. He's an idiot.”

She nodded. “Oh, okay then.”

They made their way down the path, winding through the trees until they came upon a clearing. Ginny felt the tension in her shoulders increase dramatically, but tried not to cling too tightly to Arthur's clothes as he guided the horse to a hitching post near the edge of the camping area. Ginny's eyes roved around the place, taking in the numerous horses, the covered wagons and the tents set up in a rough ring around the clearing. Several people milled about, some of them looking up at their arrival and watching her warily. A small boy ran past them and yelled, “Hi, uncle Arthur!” before he disappeared around the side of one of the larger tents.

“That'll be Jack,” Arthur offered, “Marston's boy. He's a good kid.”

Ginny went back to observing the campsite, wondering which of these people she could match to the names Arthur had given her on their ride over. Arthur hopped down from Athena and loosely tied her reins to the hitching post before giving her a brief pat on the neck and a treat from his satchel. He then turned to Ginny and held his hands up toward her. “C'mon, let's not put this off any longer.”

Ginny braced her hands on his broad shoulders and leaned her weight into his grasp as he helped her down and set her on her feet. She brushed absently at her skirts and adjusted her backpack on her shoulders before straightening and lifting her chin, looking more confident than she truly felt. “Shall we?” she asked.

Arthur nodded with the ghost of a smirk and lead her to the largest tent. She dipped her head in greeting to a few people as they passed, and she noticed a small group forming quietly behind them as they made their way to what she assumed must be where Dutch would be.“Arthur, my boy!” a booming voice called out as Arthur ducked his head into the tent. “You're back already. Did you bring her?”

She watched as Arthur spoke with the man inside the tent, and then straightened as he stepped aside to allow who she could only guess was the illusive Dutch van der Linde to step out in front of her. He seemed to size her up, but kept a welcoming smile on his face as he said, “And you must be Miss Sinclair.”

There was the briefest of moments where her anxiety threatened to overwhelm her, the reality of willingly walking into the midst of a gang of outlaws crashing over her like a tidal wave. But when she saw Arthur standing behind this man, watching her carefully to see how she would handle this on her own, she felt the need to stand taller, to show that she could take whatever this gang would throw at her. So she thrust her hand out in an offer to shake Dutch's hand, and said, “I'm Virginia Sinclair. You can call me Ginny, if you'd like. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Dutch grinned, and in that moment he reminded Ginny of a cat about to catch its prey – but instead of pouncing, he gently brought his hand to his lips in a charismatic display of charm. “Likewise, Miss Sinclair. Arthur has had much to say about you.” Her eyes shifted to Arthur's, but his expression remained unreadable. She suddenly felt very alone in the absence of his visible support, but soldiered on as Dutch led her into his tent and asked her questions about how she came to be in Valentine.

She was generally truthful,stating that she was from Maine, that she had been visiting family and gotten herself lost, that she was looking for a man by the name of Francis Sinclair, and that Arthur had offered to help her when he was able. Dutch was quietly watchful, and she had a feeling that he was reading as much as possible in not just her words, but also her body language and how she was careful not to divulge more than she already had.

When she had finished her introduction, Dutch remained thoughtfully silent, leaning back in a folding chair and watching her. “That is quite the tale, Miss Sinclair. And I must say that I am proud of Arthur for going out of his way to offer his assistance to a,” he gestured towards her, “damsel in distress, as it were. There was a time that boy wouldn't have bothered.”

She nodded politely, but kept quiet, waiting for him to finish.

“I do, however, have to make it quite clear that Arthur's responsibilities to this camp, this _family_, must come first. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, of course. I wouldn't dream of asking any of you to prioritize my situation over your own,” she responded, “And I am willing to do whatever I can to earn my keep here in the meantime. I don't have much experience with this lifestyle, but I can cook and clean. I'm a quick learner, Mr. van der Linde, and I would be incredibly grateful for the chance to stay here until I can find my uncle.”

He seemed to mull over her words, his eyes smiling but crafty, obviously planning and strategizing. It was some time before he spoke again, and Ginny waited with bated breath for his decision.

Finally, he stood and offered her a helping hand, playing the role of the gentleman with ease. “It would be my pleasure to welcome you to our little camp, Miss Sinclair. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask myself, Mr. Matthews or Mr. Morgan. Miss Grimshaw will see to your lodging.” Ginny breathed a sigh of relief as he led her outside the tent, but stopped short at the sight of what must be the entirety of the gang gathered around the entrance. “Everyone!” Dutch called, voice booming, “Everyone, I would like to introduce you to our guest, Miss Virginia Sinclair. Arthur has _gallantly_ offered her protection until she can find her uncle, and I request that you all welcome her as one of our own until then. Miss Grimshaw.”

At this, an older woman stepped forward, skirts bustling around her. “Miss Grimshaw, please see to Miss Sinclair. Help her to get set up, if you wouldn't mind. Miss Sinclair, Miss Grimshaw here will take care of you. If you have any questions, ask her.” He gently nudged her forward with a hand to the small of her back, and Ginny stepped up to the older woman before turning to look for Arthur, finding only the leader of the gang standing behind her now. Dutch bowed, arms spread wide. “Welcome to the gang,” he said with that cat-like grin.

“Come along, Miss Sinclair,” Miss Grimshaw's sharp voice called, and Ginny twisted to see her already walking swiftly away. “You'll be sleeping with the rest of the girls over here.”

* * *

In quick succession, Ginny met “the girls,” as Arthur and Miss Grimshaw had called them: Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth. They were each pleasant, though Karen was a little stand-offish at first. Ginny didn't blame her, though – she was a stranger, after all.

There were three other women in the camp: Abigail, who she learned was Jack's mom and was probably the second-most distrustful of her in the group; Sadie, who was very reserved and kept to herself; and Molly, who very quickly appeared to hate her guts. Ginny said as much to Mary-Beth and Karen, and Karen snorted and said not to be too concerned by her. “She's been all high and mighty ever since Dutch took a special interest in her. She's harmless, though.” She took a deep swig from a bottle of whiskey, washing down the meal that they were sharing by one of the campfires.

Ginny also quickly learned that, although Mr. Pearson was the camp cook, it was a known fact that his cooking left something to be desired. Mary-Beth was gracious, saying that it wasn't entirely his fault and that he had precious little to work with. Ginny had to choke down the stew regardless, and when the cook himself came around to check on her and the girls, she offered a forced smile and reassured him that it was a lovely meal. The man beamed with pride, taking her empty bowl for her (and only hers, she noted, not the other girls') to wash it and saying, “Well now, I think we're gonna get along _just_ fine, Miss Sinclair! No one else around this place appreciates my cooking!”

He was just barely out of earshot before Karen, Tilly and Mary-Beth all proceeded to break out into uncontrollable laughter.

She spent the rest of the evening observing the gang around her, watching how they interacted with each other and how they seemed to work as a machine, every part having its purpose. Well, almost every part. She watched the one known as “Uncle” fall over drunk right in the middle of a song as the others around him sang and laughed. She watched the man with the guitar – Javier, she'd been told – strumming bawdy tunes that the rest of the gang seemed familiar with. The sight made her miss her own guitars, and it made her fingers itch to play.

A young Irishman named Sean swaggered over and whispered in Karen's ear, and she watched as the woman giggled and got up to follow him to a tent. Mary-Beth blushed and smiled, turning back to Ginny and showing her other members of the gang from where they were seated. “That one there is the Reverend Swanson. He's... well, he's not truly been himself for a long while. Sad story, that one. Let's see... That one is Herr Strauss. He's our bookkeeper, and also our doctor, I suppose. He's in charge of the medicines and tonics, at least.”

Ginny nodded, looking wherever Mary-Beth pointed and trying to memorize all the faces. Bill was yelling boisterously at someone else – she couldn't see who, as their back was turned to them. Charles was making his way over to the path leading into camp to take his shift as a guard. Lenny was singing with Javier about something called a “ring-dang-do.” Miss Grimshaw was washing bowls, and Ginny decided to excuse herself to help. She figured it wouldn't hurt to try to ingratiate herself with the matron of the camp.

As she was making her way over to the back of the kitchen wagon, a young man walked up to her and began to introduce himself. He held a hand out shyly and spoke with a stutter, “Hell-hello, um, I'm... I'm Kieran...”

Ginny smiled and went to take his hand, when a large, warm hand settled on her shoulder, causing her to jump and Kieran to audibly gulp, whipping his hand back and taking a step backwards. She was about to turn around to see who could inspire such a look of terror on the poor boy's face, when Arthur's deep voice spoke from behind her.

“Keep your hands to yourself, O'Driscoll,” he said, voice dark and threatening.

_O'Driscoll? Here?_ she thought, beginning to feel her heart race. _Why would they have an O'Driscoll just walking around here?_

Kieran spoke up, voice trembling, but shoulders squaring, “H-how many times do I have t-to say it – I'm n-not an O'Driscoll. Not anymore!”

Ginny looked up at Arthur, still looming behind her.

“As far as I'm concerned, you'll always be an O'Driscoll. Now keep your hands to yourself and go help Miss Grimshaw with the dishes.”

Ginny watched the young man shuffle off, his eyes determined but his actions obviously submissive. She wondered why he was here, and what made him so desperate to prove himself, so she looked back up to Arthur and asked.

“We caught him a while back,” he said, posture beginning to relax a little as his eyes shifted from Kieran's retreating form to Ginny's upturned face. “He gave us some good information and we decided to keep him around for a while. Let him prove himself.”

She chewed that information over, watching as Kieran took over cleaning for Miss Grimshaw and she stepped away to have a drink by the fire. “He seems earnest,” she said.

Arthur was quiet. “Seems so. But he's an O'Driscoll until he proves he's not. It's still fun to watch him squirm,” he said with a sharp grin.

Ginny shook her head and turned to watch the camp as everyone relaxed for the evening. “Is it always like this?” she asked.

Arthur looked down at her, his eyes questioning.

“I mean,” she clarified, “is it always so... peaceful? Happy?”

He turned his gaze over the camp, seeing what she was seeing and shrugged slightly. “Tends to be, lately. We've had a rough few months. Helps to find time to just be happy, I guess.”

They stood in silence for a while, observing together. “You were right about the girls,” she said. “I like them.”

His lips quirked up in a half-smile. “I figured you might. They're good folk.”

She hummed, agreeing. “Thank you, Arthur. For bringing me here, and trusting me with this.”

He looked down at her, studying her face in the soft light of the lanterns and campfires around them. “'S no trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So sorry for the wait. Long story short: I work for a Town Clerk's office and got to experience my first election as more than just a voter, and there is a LOT that goes into that process! I started this job this spring when Covid started getting taken seriously, so it's been a whirlwind experience learning something new every day. I'm mentally exhausted most days, and finally was able to find time and mental space to finish this chapter up. 
> 
> Because I felt bad making you all wait for so long, I've decided not to worry about journal pages for this chapter. I might be able to make some for the next one, though, so let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see from Arthur's perspective! He's a bit more talkative this chapter, but I hope I'm still keeping him relatively in character. I was honestly so intimidated by this chapter because of the introduction to the rest of the gang -- especially Dutch!
> 
> I'd also like to mention that you can find me on tumblr at this url if you'd like to chat about the story or have any ideas you'd like me to consider: jennybee443.tumblr.com. I also post chapter previews and will be posting journal pages there (as well as anything else that comes to mind) if you're interested! Thank you all for the overwhelmingly positive response to this story so far! Your comments have often been the highlight of my day. ❤🐝


End file.
